


It’s the memories that make the man

by lightly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 16:06:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightly/pseuds/lightly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean remembers when Sam was Sammy, when Sammy was two years old.  All curious hands and cheeks wide with baby fat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It’s the memories that make the man

It’s the memories that make the man

 

I.

 

Dean remembers when Sam was Sammy, when Sammy was two years old. All curious hands and cheeks wide with baby fat.

Dean remembers that’s when it all really started, 21 years of memory, 21 years of fighting.

Dean remembers learning to talk again. He remembers trying to wrap himself around his brother until Sammy had tried to wriggle free.

 _“Dean, your brother isn’t a stuffed toy.”_

Dean remembers his first word, his second first word, the first word after. It was Sam. Not Sammy, just Sam. Because Sammy would have been one sound too many, one more sound that his broken voice wasn’t ready for.

 

Dean remembers when Sammy was two. When Sammy was two, Dean was six. That was when Dean had seen his father sharpening a knife for the first time. The whetstone had almost been lost in John Winchester’s large hand. Dean had been mesmerized by the soft reverence of the scraping when metal and stone met.

“C’dle.” Sammy had implored, stubby arms raised up as an offering, but Dean only had eyes for his father’s work.

“Dean.” Sam had implored again after being ignored. Only two year old Sammy’s imploring was a screech that was just this side of painful.

“Give your brother a cuddle.” Dad had said, not looking up.

So Dean had scooped up his bundle of two year old Sammy and they both watched their father slowly snick-snick the knife along the stone.

Dean remembers two year old Sammy thought their Dad was a superhero, and nothing would convince him otherwise.

 

II.

 

Dean remembers hushed, back room conversations, and Dad’s friends visiting at all hours of the night.

“Them boys shouldn’t be seeing this.”

“I don’t want them too, Joshua. But it’s better they grow up knowing what’s out there, make it easier.”

“There ain’t nothing that will make any of this easier.”

 

Dean remembers when he held a gun for the first time. He had been fast approaching eight and Sam had been three. Dean had wondered how an object could feel hot and cold at the same time, but he hadn’t wanted to ask because the question sounded stupid.

He remembered how heavy it was, Dad had stressed that it wasn’t loaded. So heavy and still empty, and it was too big for his hand.

“You’ll grow into it.” Dad had said, but Dean didn’t think he would.

Sammy had asked if they were going to play war. Dean remembers saying he didn’t think they were _playing_ anymore.

 

III.

 

Dean remembers when Sam was still Sammy, and Sammy was ten.

Dean remembers in a fit of uncharacteristic childishness, ten year old Sammy had run away.

The February morning had started off mild, but had slid into freezing by noon, and the temperature had dropped several more degrees when he realized Sam wasn’t in his room.

Ten year old Sammy was John Winchester’s son and resourceful as hell. Dean had eventually found him two towns over. In reality it was just a short bus ride away, but the haze of heart-stopping, frantic worry had made it seem like an ocean.

Dean remembers not telling Dad, even though withholding information was a lot like lying.

Dean remembers holding Sam close until Sam’s ten year old tears had quietened to sobs.

“I know it’s not fair, I know.” Dean had whispered into dirty, unruly hair. “I know.”

 

IV.

 

Dean remembers when Sammy became Sam. Or at least when Sammy forcefully started calling himself Sam. He was and always would be Sammy to Dean.

Sixteen year old Sam was sure of himself, as sure of himself as a sixteen year old could be.

Dean remembers sixteen year old Sam was sullen without being surly. And he wasn’t shy, he just kept to himself. He had this little boy smile that could charm and delight, one that eased him through social midfields.

Sam, not Sammy – dammit Dean – was doing well in school. A grade well, until a werewolf ate his homework and his hastily put together replacement only earned him a B-.

During the after school ride home, Sam bitched like it was the end of the world. But Dean remembers after the motel room had slammed shut. When Dad had left to hustle unsuspecting bar flies out of their Friday pay check. After, Dean remembers a thank you hug and a lingering touch. Because, Dean had stayed up all night to help.

 

V.

 

Dean remembers the first time he didn’t know who his brother was. He remembers a time when his memories of Sammy, Sam, were four years old. He remembered the feel of eighteen year old Sam’s hands on his skin. A touch he could still feel through the missing years. Less of a phantom pain and more of a phantom tingle. But he didn’t know the touch of twenty two year old Sam.

He remembered the creak of an old worn bed and the feel of a shaky body pressing itself against his.

He remembers eighteen year old Sammy’s whispered words.

“I’m not leaving you, and I’m not leaving this.”

And Dean remembers saying, “No, you’re just leaving.”

 

Dean remembers every curve and every line of eighteen year old Sam’s body. Every scar and every spot that made Sam sigh were plotted on his mental map, but for one heart thudding second, he remembers being afraid of twenty two year old Sam’s uncharted waters.

 

Dean remembers holding a crying, shaking Sam until he had cried and shook himself to sleep.

“I know it’s not fair, I know.” He had whispered into dirty, unruly hair that was ash dusted and smelled like fire. “I know.”

 

VI.

 

Dean remembers the first time he held a gun. He had been a seven and a half year old soldier who didn’t think his hand would ever be big enough to hold it properly, and three year old Sammy had just wanted to play.

He didn’t remember every time he held a gun after that; he just grew up with that gun in his hand. Flesh and metal had melded to form a perfect fit.

But Dean remembers when he held his gun, drawn and ready, knowing that he might have to shoot Sam, shoot Sammy. Dean remembers that he couldn’t hold it drawn and ready for long. It was like a cold dead weight in his hands.

Twenty four year old Sam might have had a few more scars than eighteen year old Sam, but Dean had mapped and memorized them all. Twenty four year old Sam still tasted like twenty two year old Sam and was still as smart as sixteen year old Sam and was still as stubborn as ten year old Sam. Twenty four year old Sam might not have offered his arms up like two year old Sam had, but Dean would still have scooped him up if he could.

Dean remembers the war between what he was told, and what he knew, what he remembered.

“I can’t do it, Sammy.” Dean had said. “I can’t do it.”

“I know it’s not fair, I know.” Sam had whispered against his skin, lips brushing his throat. “I know.”

 

FIN


End file.
